


5 Times Crowley Self Harmed and the First Time Aziraphale Spoke to Him About It

by Lucky (LuckyKid)



Series: Crowley Struggles With Self Harm [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Blood, Canon-Typical Blasphemy, Hurt Crowley (Good Omens), Relapse, Scars, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Seriously... this could be very triggering, Supportive Aziraphale (Good Omens), eventual CBT and DBT, graphic depictions of self harm, implied/referenced suicidal ideation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-27
Updated: 2019-07-27
Packaged: 2020-07-20 13:40:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 4,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19993132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LuckyKid/pseuds/Lucky
Summary: Crowley has been self harming for millennia. This is a telling of five of those instances. He's kept this well hidden from Aziraphale. Or rather, he had, until their body swap. This is also the telling of that conversation.Inspired by Zwergenmaedchen's fic, "Let me in before you drown"(https://archiveofourown.org/works/19782340)





	1. 3004 BC (Mesopotamia)

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Let me in before you drown](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19782340) by [Zwergenmaedchen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zwergenmaedchen/pseuds/Zwergenmaedchen). 



> This fic was inspired by Zwergenmaedchen's, "Let me in before you drown"  
> (https://archiveofourown.org/works/19782340)
> 
> Trigger Warning: Self Harm
> 
> Seriously, this could be so triggering. Firstly, it has little details that may just be too relatable for small reasons. It also is from the perspective of the person who is actively self harming, so we are in tune with all of the feelings leading up to, during, and after the action. It also explicitly describes the experience. 
> 
> Please, please, be safe. Textable helpline: crisistextline.org.  
> Do what you need to to not hurt yourself (like maybe write self indulgent fic to vicariously go through the motions).
> 
> Note: in narration, Crowley is referred to as Crowley and he/him/his regardless of time period and location. In dialogue, he is sometimes referred to as Nanny.

Questions may have gotten him cast out of Heaven, but they’re all he had at the moment.  
Looking around at the muddy wasteland that She left behind, the only thing on Crowley’s mind was  __ why?  
__ Why did You do this? Why would anyone think this was justifiable?  
He had been wandering around what passed as ‘land’ for the last two days, searching for any adults who may have miraculously survived the flood[1]. Exhausted, more emotionally than physically, Crowley found a dry enough rock to sit upon.  
__ Why do You cause so much pain?

Why Crowley started scratching his arm is another question that could not be answered.

Absentmindedly, as he looked over the landscape, Crowley brought his nails to his forearm. He didn’t even notice his actions until it started to sting.

With his attention drawn away from the atrocities surrounding the past two months, Crowley looked at his skin. It was pink, but not yet raw enough to bleed. The stinging made his head buzz and he wondered how much longer it would take until he did start to bleed. And would the soft buzzing continue if he kept scratching?

At least he could find answers for  _ those _ questions: 47 minutes and yes, respectively. In fact, the buzz and the wave of calm that followed were able to keep him distracted for almost half an hour after his scratching stopped. As the sense of calm receded, Crowley looked down at the broken skin. It had helped him; it would be rude to just miracle the cut away. And anyway, he thought, this was just a weird, one time thing, so there was no need to heal the injury.

And the following week, Crowley thought that it was just a weird, three time thing.

Before Crowley next saw Aziraphale, he had already brought a blade into the ritual.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] He knows for a fact that many of the children survived. He made sure of that. It was very evil of him to do so.[return to text]


	2. 33 AD (Golgotha)

He just fucking stood there! He just stood there and watched as Jesus was brutally killed. He’s a demon for Hell’s sake–he could have done something. He could have stopped it!  
Crowley had already destroyed the room he was renting, but he was still angry. And he knew at whom he was angry. He was angry at himself for being too  _ fucking _ weak and cowardly to do the right thing. Whatever the fuck that was.

There was only one way to deal with that anger, and it wasn’t by demolishing the furniture.

After taking a moment to ground himself in the earthly plane, Crowley looked around the mess, trying to remember where he put his blade. He found it in the shards of a wooden chest[1].

Crowley adjusted his grip and pulled up his sleeve. There would be no slow process tonight and no precision to his actions. This was no peace nor penance, it was just punishment for the unforgivable.

\- - -

He sat on the broken bed, watching the blood fall to the floor in drops. He cursed quietly as tears shortly followed. He wasn’t ready to let go of the blade, nor to start putting things back together. But he couldn’t keep hurting himself either; the severity of his shaking put an end to that.

For tonight, at least.

He didn’t feel any better. He just felt empty. And he was still angry. Why was he still angry? 

In the dark, the answer dawned on him. And even though he was already Fallen, Crowley was a little worried to think it.  _ He was angry at Someone Else. _ After all, he was just a demon. Really, what could he have done?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] It was in a chest because drawers were not invented yet, as a young person in the 21st century will discover while Googling things for a story he will write.[return to text]


	3. 1148 AD (Oxford)

“Is this your doing?” 

The accusing tone had interrupted his efforts to tempt a monk to draw lewd images in his manuscripts. With a farewell and a promise to return tomorrow, Crowley turned around.

“Angel,” Crowley greeted with false enthusiasm. He may be doomed to loving this being, but he did not enjoy the implication of his words. Just because he was a demon, it did not mean he enjoyed what the chaos and warring were doing to the island he had started to think of as home. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“It has been 13 years, Crowley! Don’t you think this Anarchy has gone on long enough?”

“I had nothing to do with this; it’s an entirely human thing,” Crowley said. From the look on Aziraphale’s face he felt the need to add, “honest.” That was a mistake, however, because it seemed to make Aziraphale even angrier.

“Do you really think I’m going to believe that? Every time something horrible happens, your defense is ‘the humans did it to themselves.’” Crowley let go of the initial wave of pain and tried to find a happy place by watching the angel’s gesticulations.

“Angel, c’mon. Let’s go to a tavern. I know a good one just a few streets over–”

“No! I’m done. I’m finished, Crowley.”

Crowley cocked his head to the side and drew his eyebrows together.  _ Why was his angel acting like this? _

“No, I’m done socializing with someone who repeatedly lies about the horrors he’s caused.” Aziraphale crossed his arms and turned so he was no longer facing Crowley head on, as if to visually show his cutting of ties.

“What’s wrong with taking credit for unclaimed work?” Aziraphale turned back to him with a new fervor.

“That’s not what I mean and you know it! You keep saying that you’re claiming ‘evil doings’ done up by the humans themselves but I rather think you have it twisted around. I rather think you’re twisting me around,” Aziraphale admitted. “All the assassinations, the mass murders, the–the Crusades, even! These are all y–your inventions. You're only blaming the humans. Heaven knows why.”

“Do you honestly believe I’m capable of all that?” Crowley growled, hoping it would hide the hurting.

“You’re asking if I think it’s more believable that a demon,” Aziraphale spat the word out, “is responsible for causing mass suffering than that some humans did it?”

“That’s not fair.”

“No, it isn’t fair. It is not fair at all. Not to these people and not to me, Crowley.”

Crowley had to grind his teeth to keep his eyes from watering any further, ever thankful for sunglasses.

“I thought–I thought maybe you were different,” Aziraphale started.

It was too much. It was far too much to bear.

“I’m leaving,” Crowley decided. “I don’t have to listen to this.”

The quicker he could turn around and leave, the less likely it would be that he’d fall to pieces in public.

“Crowley!”

He didn’t care. He didn’t care that he left Aziraphale. He didn’t care that the angel assumed The Anarchy was his fault. Or the Crusades. He didn’t care that a demon is all Aziraphale will see him as. A violent, vile creature, with only enough room in his being for evil and nothing else.

He didn’t care at all.

Except for the fact that he cared entirely.

He held it together just long enough to close his door behind him before dropping to the ground. Aziraphale thought he was capable of horrors. Well, that makes sense, though, doesn’t it? That’s all that’s in him. There was nothing good–not in a demon.

He crawled over to his shelves and found the box he needed. All that was in him was vile and disgusting. And it was too much. It was too, too much.  _ Besst to just let it sssssseeep out. _


	4. 1519 AD (Rome)

Leonardo Da Vinci died and Crowley remembered there was a reason he didn’t often make friends with humans. But he couldn’t help it. This one had been so brilliant, constantly seeking to push understanding, opening up people’s imaginations. And he did it all without hurting anyone.

Crowley wished he could say the same. Tempting Eve to take the apple and, more recently, tempting that other Italian man into exploring the world–he got a commendation for that. _Just look at the mess you’ve made_. Crowley had blood on his hands.

And then, in the very literal sense, Crowley had blood on his hands.

 _Fuck_. He’d been doing so well. He hadn’t engaged in this… habit… for decades. He had stopped shortly after meeting Leo da V. The man was just so kind and comforting. And observant. It was only a few months after they met that Leo da V had caught on to what Crowley was doing to himself. Crowley didn’t freak out as much during that conversation as he thought he would. It was probably because Leo da V was just a human. But he turned out to be so much more than Crowley expected. He was amazing and human in the best way.

Crowley missed his friend. He missed Aziraphale, too. He hadn’t seen the angel since they mourned the massacre of over two thousand people in Portugal 13 years ago. There was so much blood.

He looked down at his arm and the nails of his right hand. There was blood here, too. And he didn’t mean to do it. Not now and not when he influenced voyages to Turtle Island. They were just meant to explore, make new connections, and open up the possibilities in human knowledge. Instead, so many lives extinguished far before their time and the Earth lost all those brilliant minds. It lost another this past week, as he was told through the letter that now lay on the floor. Crowley left it there and walked over to the framed sketch that Leo da V had gifted to him.

He didn’t get to say goodbye to his friend. Now he’ll never see him again. Unless. _Please_ , he thought, _dear G–please let me never see him again_. He took the sketch off the wall and cradled it in his arms, glad that he long ago miracled it to never stain or tear.


	5. 2013 AD (An Official London Residence)

It was just too much. It was just too, too much. And there was so much everything. Armageddon was less than a decade away and he was pretty sure he was messing up in raising Warlock and the boy seemed too normal but Aziraphale thought it was fine and he hadn’t bled in over a month and it was just too, too much.

He’d been trying to cut back on the, well, cutting. Satan forbid Warlock finds out, that’s not the type of evil influence he wanted to be. There was also the fact that he saw Aziraphale every day. So far cutting about once every five weeks had been something he could manage. He may have been a little more on edge than usual, but the slowed frequency was easier for hiding his trail. It also saved him almost an hour each week, which was Heaven sent–Hell sent–for the nanny.

But he needed this tonight. He had to give a report to Beelzebub and the Court yesterday and everything was just too close. The corridors were cramped and he felt like Ligur could see right through his charade. It just came too close. And it showed. Oh, it showed. He couldn’t stop fidgeting today, and maybe Warlock was too young to notice that, but the rest of the staff certainly picked up on Nanny Ashteroth’s nerves. He needed this.

After making sure the curtains were tightly closed and that his door to the hallway was locked, Crowley leapt over to the closet. From the top shelf[1] he took down a hat box. Inside was the soft case he needed. On the bed he made space for his supplies: a hand towel, a razor blade, alcohol wipes, gauze, and an ace bandage.

He could only make one cut, but that would be enough. It would be long and deep. He was halfway through it now, blade dug into his skin, chased by the pooling of blood. He breathed in the scent of iron and breathed out the panic he had been holding. He was on the way to calm; the anxiety literally draining out of him, and–

“Nanny?”

_ Shit shit shit shit shit! _ This was bad; this was not what he wanted, but he could manage it. He could manage this. Crowley dropped the razor to the ground and knocked it under the bed with his foot. At the same time, he grabbed the towel, pressed it to his arm, and turned around.

“Yes, dearest,” he asked, somehow managing to keep his voice warm and welcoming. Warlock was standing at the opposite corner of his bed, the door that lead directly into the boy’s room was open behind him. Crowley had consciously not locked that door; it wasn’t like the boy would be awake at this hour and he wanted to keep it accessible in case of an emergency.

“I had a bad dream.” Crowley’s heart ached a little. This poor, sweet child[2]. With a little frustration, Crowley miracled away the fresh cut. He didn’t have time to bandage it. His child needed him. He may have hated miracling away any cut he made[3], but Warlock came first, without question. He’d just have to wait until he had time next week.

Crowley folded the towel so that Warlock wouldn’t see any blood, placed it by his feet, and then rose to go over to the antichrist.

“Let’s get you back to bed and I’ll sit with you to keep the nightmares at bay.” Crowley offered his hand to the child, who took it gladly. “Do you want to talk about the dream, first?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] Ligur may want the boy to be a killing machine, but Crowley would prefer to keep Warlock away from sharp objects. Satan forbid he accidentally hurt himself.[return to text]
> 
> [2] And there was no way Crowley would have admitted that this was how he felt about the boy.[return to text]
> 
> [3] He definitely hated miracling away any cut he made.[return to text]


	6. +1 The First Day of the Rest of Their Lives (London) Part 1

When he saw his own body sitting on the bench, Crowley was overjoyed. Aziraphale was here and he was safe. They were both here. They were together.

Last night, Aziraphale had come to accept that Heaven was not on the angel’s side. Last night, they held hands for the first time in centuries. Last night, they verbally declared the love that they shared–the love they both knew had felt for a long time. And now today, they could do whatever they wanted.

They could do whatever they wanted, together, for the rest of their lives.

And right now, Crowley wanted to take the love of his life to the angel’s favorite restaurant. Aziraphale had agreed without hesitation. There may have been a brief moment during the lunch when Aziraphale seemed to be working through an internal debate, but the flicker of concern left the angel’s face as quickly as it had arrived.

Crowley’s heart was bursting to the point where he wondered if everyone in the building, or even all of London, could sense the love he felt for his angel, regardless of their status as occult, ethereal, or other. And then, because the universe must have felt guilty for millennia of torture, Aziraphale physically leaned into the conversation.

Crowley’s heart stopped when he noticed Aziraphale’s hand resting on the table. He could take Aziraphale’s hand right now. He could hold it with all these people as witnesses. They hadn’t shown physical affection in public where anyone could see since before Golgotha[1], but now they could. Crowley’s heart pumped so loudly he could hardly hear what Aziraphale was saying.

He could take Aziraphale’s hand, that was true. But instead he decided to rest his own hand right next to the angel’s. Crowley figured that if even he was struggling with this decision, then taking Aziraphale’s hand right now may be going too fast for him.

Then something miraculous happened. Aziraphale moved so that his hand lay on top of Crowley’s. He felt so happy he could cry. He had loved Aziraphale since the Beginning and now he was finally able to show it to the world without either of them looking over their shoulders.  _ Thank G–thank Aziraphale, honestly. _

After lunch, they quietly held hands as they walked to the bookshop. Their relationship was old enough that silence held an air of affection, not awkwardness. Besides, the look on Aziraphale’s face lead Crowley to believe that his angel needed some time to process what had happened this past week.

It was a wonderful day, even with the assassination attempts earlier that morning. Crowley was admiring the night sky as he walked to his flat[2] with Aziraphle holding onto his right arm.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale started hesitantly. “There’s something I need to talk to you about.”

“What is it, angel?” Crowley looked over at Aziraphale. He loved this angel. He would do anything for him. Whatever was worrying his love couldn’t stand up to what they’d built together.

“Well, it’s a rather difficult matter and I wanted to know where you thought it would be best to talk about it.”

Crowley slowly pulled back his head to look at Aziraphale more fully.

“I’m serious,” Aziraphale said gently and he stopped walking. Standing on the street corner, Aziraphale turned to face Crowley head on. He fiddled with the lapels of Crowley’s jacket as he said, “I anticipate this will be a painful discussion for you. Where would you be most comfortable having it?”

This didn’t seem good. They faced down Heaven and Hell, but now something else was worrying his angel.  _ What did he mean by ‘painful discussion?’ _ Crowley thought back to some of their past encounters that had left him hurting. Two from this week stood out to him–two discussions where Aziraphale made it painfully clear that he would choose Heaven over Crowley. The demon wasn’t sure what eventually swayed Aziraphale to their own side, but maybe he was starting to see that Crowley couldn’t possibly compare to Heaven.

“In bed,” he decided. In bed he would be surrounded by the comfort of silk sheets and, worse comes to worst, if Aziraphale left him, he would be all set for a thousand year nap.

\- - -

They were in the silk sheets, wearing the same cotton pajamas they each had miracled for themselves the previous night. Aziraphale’s were an adorable, old fashioned set with blue stripes. Crowley’s pajamas were actually just a long sleeve shirt and yoga pants.

Just like last night, Crowley rested on his side of the bed and was happy to have Aziraphale join him, the angel’s arm slung over his stomach and head resting on his shoulder. If they were still cuddling, Aziraphale probably wasn’t about to leave him. That would just be cruel. Aziraphale may not always understand the impact of his words, but he would never be purposefully cruel.  _ Not that a demon wouldn’t deserve it. _

Crowley steadied himself with a deep breath and then spoke.

“I’m ready, I think.” He looked down at Aziraphale. Who was Crowley kidding, he wasn’t ready. Maybe this ‘painful conversation’ wasn’t actually about him, but it didn’t matter. He wanted to return to the joy he felt that evening.

Aziraphale’s round, blue eyes looked up at him. The angel took a deep breath but still looked almost half as worried as Crowley felt. Whatever his angel needed, Crowley would do. And it seemed like Aziraphale needed this conversation.

“My dear, I don’t know–I don’t know how to start.” Crowley watched him in silence, making space for Aziraphale to voice his thoughts.

“You know how we switched bodies today?” Crowley nodded. He did know that that happened today. He didn’t know where Aziraphale was going with this line of thought, but he was aware of the deeds of the day.

Aziraphale started tracing shapes over Crowley’s shirt. Perhaps something happened in Hell had troubled the angel. It was a scary place.

“For that time, we–we were able to see every part of each other’s bodies[3].”

Aziraphale’s fingers circled over Crowley’s chest before heading towards his left arm.

“And, while in Hell, I saw your body take a swim, as you know.” Crowley was still listening attentively. He also still didn’t know what Aziraphale was trying to say. “Before going into the tub, I took off your jacket. And then your shirt.”

Aziraphale’s fingers stopped over the fleshy part of Crowley’s forearm and he let his hand rest on the sleeve there.  _ Oh _ .

Crowley knew now what Aziraphale was saying. He knew, he really did, but he hoped that his inference was wrong.

“So I saw your scars.” His inference wasn’t wrong.

  
Losing your whole world in an instant is a heartbreaking experience. The first thing you feel is the drop. Everything that you had once assumed to be a fixture in life is now gone. All the things you had used to build the base on which you stand is suddenly sucked into a black hole beneath you. And then you Fall, too[4]. And there are no pieces to pick up. Everything is gone. Forever. The second sensation comes with the realization that this is what you will feel for the rest of eternity. When you lose your whole world, that doesn’t mean that only the most important pieces are gone. Everything is gone. There is literally nothing you have left to build any semblance of a new life. You are simply doomed to an eternity of loss and emptiness. And that is a realization too painful to allow for the peace of resignation.

Crowley was sure this was the same heartbreaking experience that he faced in the late night silence of a Mayfair flat. What made it worse was that fact that he knew it was all his fault.

  
Aziraphale is hurt. For whatever reason, finding Crowley’s scars had hurt him. The scars only existed because of Crowley’s actions. So Crowley hurt Aziraphale.

He messed up, he knows that. He’d only just gotten the chance to openly love Aziraphale but that was gone now. It wasn’t even the fault of the outside forces that Crowley always blamed. No, it was because of him. It was always because of him. He was a demon. Demons couldn’t love; they could only cause pain.

He doesn’t even realize he started to cry until Aziraphale brushed a thumb across his cheek.

“I’m sorry, Aziraphale.” It’s too late. He had already hurt Aziraphale. Words couldn’t heal the angel, even if they were true. He never wanted to hurt him.

“I’m so, so sorry.” Crowley was cut off by a sob. And then another.

“Shhh,” Aziraphale cooed. He ran his hand over Crowley’s forehead and through his hair. Crowley couldn’t figure out why his angel was still being kind when all he’d done was hurt him. But he also couldn’t resist the comfort. To get closer, Crowley turned and crumpled up into Aziraphale’s arms.

“Shhh, I love you, Crowley. I love you.”

“I’m so sorry, Aziraphale.”

“Shhh, I–I’ve got you.” Aziraphale was starting to sound choked up as well. “I’ve got you, love.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] While they had held hands on the bus, Crowley had… encouraged… the other riders not to notice. Old fears die hard.[return to text]
> 
> [2] Crowley would concede that the book shop had a loving atmosphere, but there was not a bed in the whole building. This was a hindrance because the two of them had found out, last night, how comforting it is to lie next to another being and sleep. It was an experience they intended to turn into a habit.[return to text]
> 
> [3] Crowley was too asexual to suggest what they could have done in that time. Or maybe he would have made a remark, if his equally asexual partner didn’t already look distressed.[return to text]
> 
> [4] It felt like the Fall. It may lack the theatrical flames and the snapping of bones, but it still mimics the worst part. It still has that moment where you physically feel another’s love draining out of your body, knowing there is no one to share the blame; it was self inflicted.[return to text]


	7. +1 The First Day of the Rest of Their Lives (London) Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is brought to you by CBT and DBT!
> 
> CBT - Cognitive Behavioral Therapy
> 
> DBT - Dialectical Behavior Therapy

They lied there with Aziraphale holding Crowley until his sobbing had fully quieted to the occasional sniff. His fingers that previously were tightly gripped in Aziraphale’s nightshirt were now relaxed. He rested his right hand over Aziraphale’s heart and stroked the blue fabric with his thumb.

After the sobbing had forced his body to take deep breaths, Crowley took a figurative step back from the situation to try to identify any possible cognitive distortions that were influencing his automatic thoughts[1]. 

Filtering: It wasn’t true that Crowley could only cause pain. There were times where he brought his angel joy. He’s taken Aziraphale to plays and restaurants. He got a book posthumously signed for him; that was a fact that still bewildered the angel.

Polarized thinking: It was just yesterday that the almost armageddon happened–a day where the similarities between angels and demons were made very clear and where a human showed how important it was to have the potential for good as well as evil. Crowley may have Fallen, but that didn’t make him any more or less of a monster than he was while a part of the Host. And it was okay, beneficial even, to have some parts of himself that didn’t align with what was Right.

Catastrophizing: Crowley was, probably, not actually going to lose his whole world. After all, Aziraphale was still here. If he was going to leave, he likely would have done so already.

Miscellaneous Cognitive Distortions: Aziraphale had a right to his own truths. If Aziraphale felt that loving Crowley was not a waste of his time, Crowley could not fairly deny Aziraphale’s right to his beliefs. In a similar vein, Crowley’s truth was not automatically more accurate than Aziraphale’s. It was, hypothetically, possible that Crowley actually was worthy of love.

Crowley felt a little embarrassed, now that he was analyzing his earlier thoughts. But he would let himself feel that emotion and then let it drift away.

Aziraphale kissed the top of Crowley’s head.

Aziraphale was still here. They were still together.

“May I see them?”

Aziraphale’s question surprised Crowley.  _ It will be okay _ . Crowley nodded into his shoulder.

“Ya, just,” Crowley started. He wasn’t sure what he was trying to say.  _ Just don’t hurt the scars? That didn’t even make sense. Just don’t get hurt by them? I can’t and shouldn’t try to control Aziraphale’s emotions _ .

“Just be careful.” It would be okay. He just needed to breath through this. Aziraphale would look at them, be done looking at them, and then they could go back to normal. He just needed to keep calm.

He rolled onto his back, pulled his sleeve up to his elbow, and then offered his arm as if it was totally fine.

Aziraphale took his hand and Crowley decided to turn away. He didn’t want to see Aziraphale’s reaction. Part of him didn’t even want to be here right now. But he would do anything for his angel.

Crowley didn’t jump when Aziraphale touched his jawline. He did turn back to his friend, though. Aziraphale looked hurt. He hurt Aziraphale. He could get through this. It was Crowley’s fault. Aziraphale wasn’t going to leave. He could manage. He wasn’t just a demon.

“What are you thinking, my dear?” This was not a question that Aziraphale had ever asked him. In the thick of ‘too much,’ it also was not a question Crowley was ready to answer. Instead he shut his eyes tightly and shook his head.

“Shhh,” Aziraphale cooed and Crowley felt his hands run through his hair once more. “I’ve got you, Crowley. And you don’t have to tell me anything.”

Aziraphale was wonderful. He was kind and warm and full of unconditional love[2]. Crowley didn’t deserve–Crowley would work to deserve having Aziraphale in his life. He took a deep breath, calming down when his lungs were filled with the scent of Aziraphale next to him.

Again, Crowley was filled with questions. Why did Aziraphale love him? Why did he want him in his life? Why did he want to dwell in the marks on Crowley’s arm? And, perhaps the only one he could actually voice at the moment,

“What do you–what do you want with them?”

“Well,” Aziraphale bit his lip and looked over the scars on Crowley’s arm. He reached out a tentative hand. And Crowley panicked. “May I–”

“No!” Crowley shouted.  _ Please don’t miracle them away _ . He didn’t want to go into that at the moment, though, so he only added a quiet, “Don’t.”

Aziraphale’s eyes widened slightly but he stayed calm.

“Okay, I won’t kiss them. That’s perfectly okay, dear.”

“What? No, that’s n–I thought you were,” Crowley said. He was a bit confused. “Wh–why would you want to do that?”

The look Aziraphale gave Crowley at that moment was difficult to read.

“I love you, Crowley. I want you to know that and that I love every part of you.”

“Ssso you want to kiss my scars?”

“Yes.”

It really wasn’t over. Aziraphale really wasn’t leaving; he would remain a part of Crowley’s life. And so, just perhaps, Crowley could still openly love Aziraphale. His lips quivered as he formed his next question.

“Ngjk. C–c–cou–could you kiss me? First?”

Crowley lay on the bed, looking into Aziraphale’s eyes. This angel was what Heaven was meant to be. He was forgiving and loving. How did the Almighty make someone as truly beautiful–as truly awe inspiring–as Aziraphale?

Aziraphale smiled and it cleared the pain that had been written on his face for the last hour. He propped himself on an elbow and leaned down to kiss Crowley.

His lips were soft and smooth[3]. When they first parted, Aziraphale gasped. Involuntarily, Crowley smiled. This is what bliss felt like. Crowley got lost in the feeling as the angel returned to his lips.

When Aziraphale pulled away, he shivered.

Aziraphale looked down at Crowley’s arm and then met his eyes with a pointed look. Aziraphale loved him. Why? How? Crowley didn’t know, but he was used to having unanswered questions. All he needed to know at this moment was that Aziraphale loved him and would continue to love him.

Crowley nodded to give his consent.

The angel shifted his position to sit back on his legs. He brought Crowley’s arm to his lips and held eye contact as he softly, and ever so slowly, placed his lips on the raised skin. Crowley still didn’t know why Aziraphale would want to do this.

Aziraphale repeated this action over and over again until it clicked. His angel actually would love every part of him. Crowley’s small smile was rewarded with another kiss on his lips.

“I love you,” Aziraphale said.

A small part of Crowley thought that, perhaps, he actually could be worthy of this beautiful angel’s love.

“I love you, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] A few years ago, Crowley had spent a part of the summer at a beach in North America. A young woman, Jasmine, had complimented Crowley’s sundress and then noted the similarities in their situations by lifting her leg to highlight some scars by her ankles. It was not the smoothest transition in a conversation, but Crowley greatly appreciated her company. Jasmine had recommended something called CBT and DBT. Upon returning to the UK, Crowley began finding any videos he could on the subjects. The principles were not yet ingrained into his mind, but he was slowly working on it.[return to text]
> 
> [2] Aziraphale’s love for Crowley was _actually_ unconditional, unlike Someone Else’s.[return to text]
> 
> [3] Crowley was very glad that he had Googled “how to kiss” while they were still at the bookshop earlier that day.[return to text]
> 
> This story has a companion piece, "5 Times Aziraphale Noticed Something Was ‘Off’ and the Time He Realized Why."  
> This is the first work in the series.  
> Some parts of that story are referenced in this work and vice versa. The last chapter of this companion piece is Aziraphale's perspective in the final two chapters of this work.
> 
> (https://archiveofourown.org/works/19992886/chapters/47335609)


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